Chapter 19

It's always nice to stay home, but it's not always possible. If I'm to be a detective I have to go out and detect, and so I did. I hated to leave, though. I always dislike being away from Cecelia, but the night and now the morning had been something special, and I hated to leave that atmosphere behind. But leave it I did, for I had work to do.

I drove downtown, and parked as close to the building where Jacob Bestwick worked as I could, and went in. I rode up in the elevator, and when I got out went down the hall to the offices where Bestwick's employer was. The kicker would be the receptionist. I hadn't made an appointment because I couldn't think of a believable excuse for trying to get one, but that meant I was going to have to persuade my way in.

I gave the receptionist my card, and as she looked at it I asked if I could see Bestwick. "May I ask regarding what?" she asked. It was standard inelegant receptionspeak.

"You may ask," I said, smiling. "But I'll save you the trouble. It's about his ex-wife."

"This is a personal matter then?"

"I suppose you could classify it that way, but for me it's business. But suppose we omit the haggling, and let him decide. It'll be easier on both of us thataway. You could get on the horn and let him know I'm here, and why."

She smiled at me. "I could do that, couldn't I? However, I'm not sure I ought to."

I was doing better than I'd expected. I think treating her like a human being with a mind and a will had gotten me somewhere. All too often receptionists become objects to those they deal with, like a sofa or a desk. And of course receptionists are people, not objects, and appreciate it when you treat 'em like people. I set my hat, which I'd been holding, upside down on her desk and said, "I think it'd be a good move. It can't hurt anything, and as pleasant as I find it talking to you, I bet you've got better things to do than entertain me."

She giggled. "Am I entertaining you?"

"Actually, you are." And I engaged in a bit of shameless flattery. "I always find dark hair and high cheekbones entertaining, and then there's your personality too."

She patted her hair. "You don't think my hair's too frizzy?"

"I ain't qualified to speak on that," I said, dodging the question because I did think so. But my answer was truthful, even if it omitted my opinion. "But it is dark, and that I like."

Just then her phone buzzed, and excusing herself quickly she answered it. After a few seconds she asked the caller to hold and punched buttons, transferring the call I supposed. When she hung up I jumped into the gap. "I could stand here and enjoy your conversation forever, but I'm sure I'm keeping you from things, and I'd surely hate to have your boss catch you passing the time with me instead of doing 'em. That wouldn't be real pleasant for you, I don't guess. So if you'll go ahead and buzz Mr. Bestwick I'll really appreciate it." I was taking a risk by assuming that she'd do it, but by phrasing the request as an assumption it made it easier for her to comply.

And she did. She told him my name, and that I'm a detective – for so it says on my card – and what it was about, and after a couple of minutes she directed me back to his office.

In a suit and tie Jacob Bestwick looked as respectable as a preacher. I doubted that anyone in the office would believe me if I told them that he was stalking his ex-wife and scaring her to death. But he knew he was doing it, and when he saw me and realized I was the one who'd gotten in his way a week ago at Cinda's place, his face got darker. I doubted it was shame; more likely anger was the reason.

"What do you want?" His voice was a snarl, and he didn't sound at all respectable.

"To talk to you, Mr. Bestwick."

"About what?"

"I suspect you can guess. In fact, I bet you don't even need to guess."

He leaned back in his chair, opting for a laid back approach, though I doubted he'd really gotten calm all of a sudden. "Say I know what you want. What then?"

"Well, I tell you what I think." I paused, but he said nothing, so I proceeded. I was still standing in front of his desk, my hands in my pockets, for he hadn't offered a chair and I wanted to keep the height advantage. "The fact is that regardless of right or wrong – and you're wrong in this – what you've been doing is illegal. There's a restraining order in place, and stalking is a crime anyway. So what you oughta do is just obey the law, and stay away from your ex-wife."

"A restraining order ... a piece of paper."

"True." I didn't mention that his words reminded me of Adolf Hitler's characterization of the Munich agreement. "But a piece of paper with teeth. If you get within 100 feet of Ms. Barelas, you're in violation of the law, on top of being in violation simply by stalking her. It's a piece of paper that could get you in jail."

"I'm not too worried about jail. When's the last time you knew someone to go to jail for violating a restraining order?"

"That's not the point." I was deliberately avoiding the answer, which was that arresting those who violated restraining orders wasn't the highest priority of law enforcement. "The point is that you're breaking the law. And whether it's sooner or later, you will have to pay the price."

"I think I'll risk it."

I wasn't making a dent. He was so sure of himself that nothing I could say along this line was going to have an impact. I tried another tack. "Doesn't it concern you that you're frightening your ex-wife?"

"My wife needs a does of reality. She can't dump me. I'm her husband and that's that."

"Not according to the law, Mr. Bestwick. There's been a divorce, I've seen the decree, and in the eyes of the law she's not your wife any more than I am."

"But according to the law of God she is. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

I recognized the near-quote, even though I haven't used the King James Version in years. And I wanted something awful to give him a lecture on the proper use of the Bible. But that wouldn't serve any useful purpose. Those who quote the Bible to serve evil ends aren't likely to care about using it properly. Instead I stuck to my point. "The law you've got to worry about is that which prevails in Albuquerque. You can hash out the moral and theological aspects with Ms. Barelas, if she wishes to do that, but legally you have no more claim on her than you do on Jane Doe from Providence."

"God's law supersedes man's law."

Did Bestwick really believe that? Was he really religious, or was he just using these platitudes as justification for what he was doing? If it was the former it was going to be a killer getting through to him, for religious fanaticism is hard to crack. If it was the latter it would be tough for another reason: Someone so cynical wouldn't care what the truth was.

I smoothed my mustache, first the right side and then the left. I decided I was going to have to come on stronger. "Leave us omit the fancy footwork. Stay away from Ms. Barelas. Keep at least 100 feet away. That's how it works, Mr. Bestwick. I'm telling you, and I'll make it stick."

"How – by calling the cops on me? They'll just have me move on, and then I'll be back."

I hate insufferable punks, especially when they know the holes in my arguments. "Mr. Bestwick, if I have to I'll call the cops on you 20 times a day, every day. Eventually you'll get tired of moving on, and eventually they'll get tired of having to move you, and they'll put you in cuffs and move you to jail."

"And I'll be out before they finish writing their stupid reports."

I wasn't about to tell him that my own police experience confirmed his view. "Mr. Bestwick, I'm getting a little tired of your smart mouth. Stay away – that's all."

"Or what?"

Well, he had me there. I had to either take a stand and maintain it, or back down. "Mr. Bestwick," I said, and my voice was quiet, "either you stay away from Lucinda Barelas, or I'll hurt you."

"I can take care of myself."

"Not with me, you can't. I don't fight fair. If it comes down to that, I'll hit you from behind in the dark, and you'll never have a chance to get up. I'll put you in the hospital, Mr. Bestwick, and I'll keep putting you there until you learn the lesson." I was sweating, though it wasn't running down my face, not yet anyway. I hate this kind of thing, but it was all that showed any sign, now, of maybe working.

"Threats, Carpenter, don't scare me. You've spouted off enough, and I want you out of my office." At least I'd finally cracked the laid-back façade he'd been hiding behind.

"Sure, I'll leave," I said more calmly than I felt. I leaned one hand on the desk, using my standing height as a means of intimidation. "I'll leave. But you keep putting your face where it don't belong, and I'm gonna rearrange your face."